


Love Snatched

by Plankwieldinghuntys



Category: Blur, Hole (Band)
Genre: Bondage and Discipline, Cheese, Drug Abuse, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-29
Updated: 2016-12-29
Packaged: 2018-09-13 04:22:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9106444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Plankwieldinghuntys/pseuds/Plankwieldinghuntys
Summary: Lifting the lid on the tragic cheese and lust-filled brief affair between Alex James and Courtney Love both have alluded to publicly. A shocking expose of lust, love and gorgonzola; drugs, drink and debauchery.





	1. THE MOP

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Courtney's POV; When Courtney Love wakes up after a wild night at the Groucho, she meets her next flame in the most unlikely of places...

It was the heady lust-filled summer of 2001, a jewel in my crown of sexual conquests. That July I had everyone; Tim Roth, Ali G – IN costume -, half the new Labour shadow cabinet… But none could hold a flame to the unforgettable lurid weekend I spent in the honeymoon suite of the Chelsea Hotel in the company of Cheesus Christ himself…the ineffably kinky bass player from Britpop’s biggest bad lads…Steven Alexander James.  
Those cheekbones, that greasy jet black fringe-oh! And how could I forget…. that rock hard ass!  
He was such a spicy little minx…

I’d just awoken in a bathroom stall at the Groucho, 9.36 on a Saturday morning, with no recollection of what had happened after leaving my air bnb on Thursday night. Picking my bloody tampon out of the toilet bowl and wiping my hands on my Versace sequin skirt, I gathered my baguette bag, razr phone and dime bag of Mandy and made my way outside.

The vision that affronted me as I stumbled out of that bathroom was enough to get the stoniest of nuns going. A prime slab of fresh meat, clearly just turned 32; a young’un.  
The angelic quality to him as he mopped up a mixture of vomit, my own menstrual blood, tequila and confetti was too much for me to resist. The way those slender hands gripped the mop handle, the agility of the sweeping motion…I was clenching like a motherfucker. Girding my loins, I swept my tequila soaked unwashed fringe out of my gunky mascara stuck eyes and sashayed over, ready to pounce.  
Now dear reader, I must admit the look of terror in his eyes as I approached only made this pursuit even more irresistible. Not before composing myself after a slight fall on the 2 foot walk over to this sex- demon, I began my pre-coital ‘banter’ (as his kind say).  
“What’s cooking good-looking?” I asked, before I could stop myself, my mouth still slightly frothing from the ket comedown doing the talking for me, my furry tongue lisping slightly.  
The mopping sex nymph chuckled delicately, lighting up a precarious Marlboro straight, and looking me in the eye.  
“You look like my next mistake,” he purred, stroking the mop handle in a way that conjured up some purely filthy phallic visions in my severely hungover mind.  
“Did you fall from heaven?” I retorted, winking in a way that I know men simply cannot resist.  
“Are you having a stroke, love?” he asked, an air of concern suddenly falling over his nubile features.  
I panic, the sexual tension is quickly fading. It had been a full 3 hours since I’d been penetrated and I was absolutely “gagging” for some “willy” (as his kind say).  
“Wanna see some puppies?” I ask.  
“Last time I heard that was from a fella hanging out the side of a white van!”  
He was excited now, I thought. Childhood memories are a sure-fire way to get into a man’s jodhpurs.  
“Me-ow!” I screeched, getting my animals mixed up.  
He laughed again.  
“I’m Alex by the way,” he said, extending a perspiring palm my way to shake. “But you can call me Steve!”  
“I’m Courtney,” I replied, grasping his hand and feeling the heat of his sweaty skin against my own. “But you can call me Pussy Galore!”  
“Well Pussy Galore, what are you doing here at 9:30! Shouldn’t a sophist-cat like you be at a breakfast meeting with your equally as intriguing, but not nearly as stunningly beautiful acquaintances?” he replied, in a laughable attempt to match my raw sexuality.  
A poor line, but a kid that stunning was able to get away with anything.  
“I could ask you the same, you” bloody” minx! If you must know, I’ve been sleeping here for the past 2 months!” I cackled, gaily, worrying slightly that I’d given too much away and exposed myself as the coked up harlot I really was.  
“I was wondering who’d been leaving the femidoms on the floor of the men’s’ bathrooms,” Alex laughed, probably jokingly as I tried to recall how many of those had actually been mine.  
He leant on his mop as he dropped his cigarette butt into the bucket and lit up a fresh one.  
“Courtney,” he enquired. “I know we’ve only just met but you seem like a banging gal and I was wondering, how much do you know about the bondage community?”  
“what don’t I know sweetheart” I say, hoping to sound mysterious, before turning away to attempt to recall what in god’s name “bondage” was. “I’m into some real kinky shit, sunshine.”  
Alex sighed with a whistle and mopped his brow with the back of his hand. I could feel him undressing me with his beady little eyes and instantly felt a wave of sexual gratification wash over me that I definitely hadn’t felt giving Rod from Peckham a hand job behind Asda last night.  
The raven haired little temptress eventually found it in himself to ask me the real question I knew had been plaguing his tiny nubile mind since he’d first laid eyes on my barely functioning anemic twig like body: “W-what are…what are your thoughts on...uhm...cheese play?”  
He blushed the same colour as a freshly shaved clit and twiddled the mop about in his Greek god-like hands. I sure wanted to twiddle HIS mop alright. My mind racing with sensual visions of brie and gouda, I was suddenly broken from my sexual reverie by a flashback to that anaphylaxis attack I’d had after having six vodka milkshakes at Liam Gallagher’s birthday party in Disneyland last year. Sure, it could’ve been the fact I was on a lot of oxytocin at the time or perhaps the red pills I’d seen Noel add to my fourth drink but I thought I’d best warn my cheesy little sex pest all the same.  
“I’m...I’m lactose intolerant,” I blurted out curtly.  
As the hope started to drain from his angular face like pus from an abscess, I had to think fast.  
“But this PUSSY isn’t!” I added, hiking up my Versace skirt to show off a flash of vulva.  
He marveled at the prime cut of fillet mignon pussy before him, the look of sheer unadulterated elation on his face not dissimilar to mine the first time I took a straight shot of china white right in the mainline, although I’m not one to reveal all my best tricks. He saw it for a mere flash, at most a minute and a half, maybe two while I absent-mindedly fished around for a tampon applicator I feared I’d lodged up there by drunken mistake.  
“Is that an ingrown I see?” he enquired naughtily, crouching down to get a closer look.  
This hot hunk was getting too big for his boots in my opinion. To question the validity of my kinky side is one thing, as kinks, quirks, fetishes and preferred methods of anal lubrication vary from person to person. Fair’s fair. But to start practically giving me a pap smear in the lounge area of the Groucho was another! I hadn’t let so much as a routine gyno near my mermaid’s purse in years; if this floor-sweeping fox wanted near my witch’s kitty he’d have to earn it! Time for a taste of the Love Machine’s signature rough treatment! I knocked the cocky English fucker for six with one swift kick of my Gucci heeled foot (the other foot was in a mismatched Prada flat and wouldn’t have delivered the same velocity), sending him crashing against the bar stools. As I stood over him, sprawled out helplessly on the puke-stained fag-ash-caked wall-to-wall carpeting, and flexed the muscles of my cervical wall, I had an intense Dali-esque flashback, partially due to the fact I was still on at least 6 different substance comedowns, to a wild night out with Thurston Moore, Leigh Bowery and two call girls in ’87. It was back in my, how should I say, “juvenile delinquent” days and ended with me getting high as fuck behind the Beverly Hills hotel and sitting on the face of some club kid who’d said I was “a fourth-rate Cyndi Lauper…and an ugly one at that!” I remember it all so vividly, lowering my heroin-needle pockmarked ass over their face, suffocating the poor girl to death after I passed out and forgot she was under me, but you know what they say in the hood – “snitches get stitches!”  
Alex, meanwhile, seemed to have learned his lesson, judging by the smell of urine that now filled the air, and so I left him there to peel himself off the grimy floor and “sort himself out”, as his kind say. Digging my rolodex out of my Wonderbra, I tossed him a card bearing my bedazzled cell digits and HIV status. I felt bad to leave him without at least paying for his dry-cleaning but I had a court date three hours ago and couldn’t hang about. Either way, as I stepped over him one last time, he caught a good eyeful of my irresistible love snatch to satisfy his wank bank for weeks and I knew we were destined to meet again.


	2. THE GAMBLE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alex's POV; Alex reflects on his altercation with Courtney and dreams of meeting her again

It had been two weeks to the fateful day Courtney Love had made me piss my corduroy slacks in the lounge area of the Groucho and I was a man obsessed. For years I’d assumed she was a myth, an urban legend. I’d heard whisperings that her pubes were made of snakes and one look would turn a man to stone. Others said she was the one who’d really shot JFK. I once even heard that she was a Frankenstein-esque composite of the corpses of Joan Crawford, Jayne Mansfield and Nancy Spungen, made in a lab in Beverly Hills. After our fateful encounter I didn’t know what to believe, except the simple fact that I was wholly totally and unashamedly in love with her.  
Our semi-erotic experience plagued my mind at all times; nothing could shake the biblical vision of her stumbling from that disabled toilet stall, tampon string dangling from between her thighs like a dead rodent’s tail, from my consciousness. And don’t even get me started on that mangled labia. Even now, as I was cervix-deep into Naomi Campbell in a budget suite at the Waldorf Astoria, the idea of a romp amongst my favourite cheeses with a woman like Courtney was enough to make me want to shove Naomi off the Egyptian silk sheets and mince the fuck out.  
I was broken from my wondering thoughts by Ms. Campbell herself.  
“Alex, are you alright down there? That’s my urethra you’re prodding around in!”  
“Sorry darling!” I blurted out, uncharacteristically flustering around like a…well, like a virgin. “That china white’s gone straight to my head!”  
“This is ridiculous!” Naomi suddenly pouted, smacking me away and collecting her underwear off the floor. “Cindy was right, Jarvis Cocker DOES give better head than you!”  
As I watched her leave, I found myself no longer caring. This wasn’t like the time Helena Christensen had stormed out of our favourite toilet stall at the Hilton after a lukewarm fingering session where she accused me of “attacking” her ovaries “like a man searching for loose change down the back of a sofa”, that being the exact quote she gave to the Sun showbiz section. I was a pariah after that and didn’t leave my house for a full 5 hours, my longest record yet. However, as I watched Naomi slip on that Agent Provocateur thong I’d stroked from Saks just ten minutes before we checked in, stealing a 100 from my wallet and waving it in my face on her way out the door, cackling like a Shakespearian witch, I was relieved. Elated almost. I knew exactly what I had to do. This was the perfect opportunity to have my deepest dirtiest Courtney Love cheese-themed fantasies fulfilled.   
Now I know what you’re thinking dear reader. Why did I, Britpop’s answer to Casanova, Lothario extraordinaire, simply not call her weeks ago? For the most part because I spent most of the last fortnight in and out of different K holes, but that’s a story for another day. Quite simply, I must say that erotic encounters such as the one I planned to have with Courtney must be played like the finest symphony. Tension must be built and worked up to, or the crescendo (i.e. an ear shattering orgasm, courtesy of moi) will have little impact and I’ll once again find myself named and shamed in the tabloid press.  
A man on a mission, I leaned over the bed rail to hoover up the coke residue with my last fiver and then hastily ransacked my wallet for the calling card Courtney had thrown at me. In between the uncountable amount of $100 bills and £100 notes (I’m notoriously transcontinental), expired condoms and empty dime bags, I found it…the card. It still reeked of her scent, that unforgettable and inimitable blend of vaginal discharge, Chanel No.5 and fag ash. I felt my member awake from its Campbell-induced slumber as I picked up the hotel phone, taking my time to savour each and every digit of that magical arrangement of numbers, sensually pressing each button as if her pussy was there in my hands. Soon, Alex, soon.  
The phone rang for what felt like an eternity before I was eventually greeted by a familiar squawk.  
“I thought I already told you, Joey!” she scolded. “I’ll some along to the robbery sure but I ain’t getting into no grave! I don’t care if it is only your grandmother!”  
“Courtney, my sweet pea,” I chuckled fondly. “It’s me, Steve.”  
“WHO?” she screamed. “I don’t know any “Steve’s”! Listen hunny, whatever you’re selling, I ain’t buying. I’ve got Billy Idol lubing up and ready to go so make this quick.”  
“Alex!” I pleaded. “It’s me, Alex! Alex James?”  
Was I really that forgettable? I was Smash Hits popstar of the year for three years running for heaven’s sake!  
“Alex Jones?” Courtney questioned. “Listen, I told you, honeysuckle, I don’t DO the whole Baptist thing – Billy? Oh for fuck’s sake, warn me before you go and just ram it in like that next time!”  
“N-no,” I stammered, eyes welling with pathetic tears. “It’s Alex James...babe…darling…”  
I could hear another voice, presumably four times number one selling artist Billy Idol, of hits such as White Wedding and Rebel Yell, in the background and some scuffling on the line. I guess I’d picked the wrong time. She was…moving on. I was about to hang up whenever her voice shook me.  
“Alex?”  
“Courtney?” I sniffled. “Is that you, sweetheart?”  
“Yeah, yeah, Alex James, or whoever, you got a big cock right? Cause I like ‘em big - UNLIKE SOME PEOPLE!” she seemed to be yelling at someone else.  
“You bet it is!” I agreed eagerly, blood rushing to my semi.  
“Cool, I’m in the Chelsea, suite 55,” Courtney replied. “Come over. Now.”  
And with that, she’d hung up, leaving me hanging like a horse and salivating like one of Pavlov’s dogs.


	3. THE SPANK-A-THON

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Courtney's POV; Courtney and Alex are finally reunited...but will their passion last?

I was absolutely furious, as I sank another highball, and ordered another to be brought up by room service. Livid even. I’d had no less than three men, two androgynous fellows and a handful of dwarves come visit me in my humble sex suite at the Chelsea already today and not one had satisfied me in the least. You’d think I was bloody frigid! Me, of all people, who’d once had a triple body orgasm watching Brett Anderson smack a young fan across the face for questioning his bisexuality!   
As I lay there spread eagle, chain smoking Camel Lights and watching the shopping channel, awaiting this Alex bloke to come and give me the ride of my life, I scratched my crotch, a lone false nail coming loose and getting lodged in my inner labia, and sighed. One day I’d be so lucky, one day.  
I was broken from my budget cubic zirconia fascination by a timid knock on the door. I knew it definitely wasn’t room service as my last order of a crate of unshelled oysters and 5 bottles of Moët Chandon in an ice bucket took at least 3 minutes, fucking slackers. It was him, I could feel it in my loins.  
“Christ, he’s keen,” I said out loud in my slightly drunk stupor. “Just the way mama likes ‘em!”  
I managed to haul myself to the door, despite the pills having numbed all sensation in my knees, thinking to myself “This is exactly how Judy Garland must have felt”. I was really too out of it to properly recall who Judy Garland is or was, but I’m pretty sure a house fell on her and some bitch stole her shoes, which was exactly how I was feeling right now.  
I swung open the door with a flourish and put on my most becoming smile, taking in every inch of the tall glass of water who stood in front of me; the man I’d agreed to copulate with. The greasy unkempt hair, sallow skin pulled taught over sharp cheekbones, a figure that says “not in bad shape but definitely enjoys cheese” – a board of which he held in outstretched arms, along with a rose, two grams of cocaine and a vintage brandy. As he stood there, quivering like jelly, the memories flooded back to me. Why of course! The mop-topped mopper from the Groucho! The sad sap with the cheese fetish who’d wet his kecks! My eagle eyes swept over the cheese board, wondering which ones he particularly wanted to plug my orifices with and my clit tingled with delight. This was going to be an interesting evening.  
“Hello, darling,” he smiled, sheepishly.   
“Don’t ‘darling’ me, wise guy!” I snapped, pulling him into the room by the cuff of his cashmere sweater, which I observed, was vomit stained already, and locking the door. “Get your cock out and let’s get this over with!”  
I snatched the cheeseboard from his clammy hands and reclined on the silk sheets with a slice of stilton, which I generously sprinkled with cocaine, as he fumbled with the zipper of his corduroy trousers, tripping over himself to get them off over his shoes. I hadn’t seen such a hysterical display of dented masculinity such as this since that time I tried shacking up with Simon le Bon and he’d fallen asleep as I’d mounted him, leaving me to naturally draw a moustache on his face with his own semen. But that’s another story. The coke was just starting to kick in and take the edge off my xans as Alex whipped out a wang so underwhelming, I’m pretty sure I’d deepthroated more well-endowed bananas. Ignoring the extremely unproportioned foreskin to actual penis ratio, I got to work lubing him up with some feta unphased. After all I’d had once had full blown penetrative sex with a French adult film star called Marion, in a barn in Provence, using only her enlarged clitoris – it was even bigger than Madonna’s love button when fully erect!  
Pushing thoughts of Madge’s botoxed vag and our illicit tryst in the back of an LA cab from my mind should it put me off my performance (and I mean what man, woman or dog (not that I’ve ever gone that far, despite what you might have heard) could rival the sexual prowess of dear Madge) I sat back and looked up at the sweaty grinning cheese-covered buffoon in front of me, wandering why he wasn’t in me already.   
“Come on then!” I screeched, tugging his jumper over his head. “Get on with it!” I undid the silk robe I’d stolen from another different hotel and lay back, waiting. “Make my day, sunshine.”  
“C-Courtney, darling,” he stammered, hesitating. “One more thing, uhm…you don’t think you could…you could spank me?”  
If there’d been a camera on hand to look into in resignation I would have done so, as I sighed and pulled him over my lap, flinching as his feta-covered member brushed against my heroin needle scars like the thing from the deep.  
“Robbed of motherly affection at a young age?” I enquired, rolling my eyes and reaching for my hairbrush.  
He didn’t answer, and instead began sobbing pathetically as I started to beat the living shit out of him. I almost felt bad about it but I wasn’t Sigmund fucking Freud and besides, it’s what the greasy little sexpot was gagging for. With his perfect nubile ass glowing satisfactorily crimson, I lit up a Marlboro Light and shoved him off my lap.  
“That enough, babe?” I asked, as I inhaled so sharply I thought I saw the image of the crucifixion in the wallpaper.  
All he did was cower away and wail, which I took as a resounding “Yes”, as I positioned myself over his body and straddled him. All I wanted was a bloody decent ride, not a therapy session; this was quickly turning into a repeat scenario of that time I tried and failed to bed Morrissey, only with less flowers. I sighed and put my cigarette out on Alex’s chest and he howled; I was not getting paid enough to live this lifestyle.   
What came next was most decidedly the most heinous experience of my life and I’m Courtney fucking Love, for god’s sake. Snorting a line of ket-cut-coke to get me through, I thrust my pussy over his chees-smothered joystick and said my damn prayers. My eyes were already closed whenever his infuriatingly posh twang broke my concentration.  
“Do you mind if I sing?” he asked, between grunts. “I always sing during sex and I just wrote this really neat tune about the Milky Way…”  
“If you must!” I snapped through gritted teeth, gyrating like my life depended on it, shuddering to think of the yeast infection this feta was bound to give me.  
Then to my horror, as the tone-deaf prick began to sing, he started tucking into the cheese board – mid coitus! The combination of his singing, panting and cheese-gorging, coupled with our own bodily acoustics, was giving me a worse migraine than the first time I went to one of Kurt’s shows. Eying up the Advil on the nightstand was giving me a better rush than this gut wrench was and I could feel my inner labia starting to go numb. With a defiant scream I rolled off the flaccid sissy and kicked the fucker from the four poster bed, showering the room with cheese and bodily excretions as I ran to the en suite in tears. Examining my swollen cunt with a hand mirror, I saw the most dreadful sight I’d ever envisioned since that one bad acid trip with Kim Gordon when I saw her face turn into fire ants crawling out of a Vietnamese’s baby’s head.  
“Get out!” I yelled, storming back into the bedroom to find Alex choking on a wedge of brie. “Get OUT!”  
Panicking I smashed the brandy bottle against the bedframe and lunged at his jugular but the smarmy fucker outsmarted me and rolled over the bed to the other side of the room, still choking and struggling to get back into his boxer briefs.  
“Get out of my sight, you TRAMP!” I screamed, charging at him but what happened next truly shook me to the core.  
Just as I was about to close my hands around his frustratingly long neck and finish the fuckwit, he finally dislodged the cheese from his throat and coughed it up…right in my fucking face. Vision obscured by brie and clouded with rage, all I remember next is my clenched fist colliding with his steel cut jaw and sending him crashing into the wardrobe unconscious. From what the police reports say, I allegedly then rolled his body up in the cheese-covered duvet and threw him into one of the hotel laundry carts, but all I know is the second he was gone and I’d cleaned the gorgonzola out of all my holes (by way of a cocaine enema), I was back in bed and straight on the phone to Madonna. It was only 11.30 – still plenty of time to have the ride of my life after all…


End file.
